During the week that I'm lucky enough to find myself in Israel, the country's experiencing a minor crisis. And, making for a refreshing change, it's not on the political front. An extreme, crop-damaging summer heat wave has seen one of Israel's most prized exports triple in value, rendering it tomato non-grata on many restaurants' menus.

Fortunately for me (perhaps less so for my generous host), this niggly detail has no bearing on celebrity chef Eyal Shani at his Tel Aviv restaurant The Salon (8 Ma'avar Yavok St/052 703 5888).

After being dropped off in what I'm told is the industrial fringe of the city, I walk through the doors of the chicly dishevelled space, which is vibrating to a deafening soundtrack of big-band music, clinking cutlery and shouted conversation. Every one of the studiously mismatched seats is occupied, with several patrons happily sharing elbow space with strangers at long communal tables.

At this point, it's perhaps important to illustrate the exclusivity of this hipster hangout. Firstly, the restaurant is only open on Wednesday and Thursday nights, thus rewarding anyone lucky enough to land a reservation with what must undoubtedly be an enormous sense of achievement (and just a bit of smugness). Secondly, there's no menu, and no fixed prices. Instead, pots and pans of whatever culinary whimsy has overcome Shani on that particular day are sent out to the tables in waves, after which an off-the-cuff calculation is made as to the cost of it all.

Shani, smartly dressed in chef's whites and geometric, tortoiseshell glasses, is busy peeling avocados behind a brick counter separating the open-plan kitchen from the restaurant. The counter is laden with mounds of produce, including pomegranates, chillies and, most notably, crates of plump, juicy tomatoes in various shapes and sizes.

After one of my inquisitive American dining compatriots asks about the fanned golden brown aubergines on display, Shani explains that the vegetables are roasted for almost a day at a very, very low heat, and promptly plonks a slice on her hand to sample.

Citing reasons of hygiene and etiquette, I politely decline when offered a taste of the purportedly heavenly aubergine, and wait until it arrives at our table in its final form, alongside a perfectly puffy, crispy rectangle of fresh tomato pizza. The creamy brinjal forms part of what I assume is a deconstruction of the popular Israeli streetfood called sabich, which is usually served as a sandwich. In this it case appears sans starch alongside slivers of hard-boiled egg and green chillies in olive oil on a cream and tomato base.

By the end of the first 'course', the Israeli wine (which is quite delicious in my novice opinion) is flowing quite freely, and, in honour of our Russian dining compatriot, so are ice-cold shots of Stolichnaya vodka. Great for lubricating the conversation (though there's hardly any danger of awkward silences in this place), but not so great for remembering the chronology of the dishes that follow.

Memorable peaks in the evening's epicurean itinerary include a buttery, cheesy, oozily decicious mamaliga (a polenta-ish porridge made with fresh mealies) that takes me back to a childhood spent eating sweetcorn from the tin. Then there's the ruby-red beef carpaccio, which is smashed to within an inch of its life right at our table by one of the chefs. The relentless thumping sees the whole restaurant down cutlery and clap along rhythmically. And then, somewhere towards the end, there's the delectably salty-sweet, pan-fried blue crab shwarma on a film of tomato foam, which makes me wish that the side-stepping crustaceans were more readily available back home.

As Shani and his team take the last orders of the evening (in the wee hours of the morning) the music's even louder and people have started dancing on tables. Then, suddenly, it appears as if the kitchen's on fire. A heady, herby smell soon permeates the restaurant and someone tells me they're burning sage, a ritual I later find out is said to purify the environment and get rid of evil spirits.

A suitably quirky way of ending off the perfect evening. There's not a bad vibe in sight.

By Annette Klinger

Photos Danya Weiner